There is a girl on Hurcott road who wishes she were a witch. She dresses in black gypsy skirts and wears black knitted shawls and she practises every day with candles. She stares with knotted concentration to will the flame to extinguish. She stares for hours and watches the wax drip, the flame dance then, at last, nothing. Just a wisp of smoke. She does not notice her pursed lips or the breath that spilt out of them.
When she is alone she turns counter-clockwise with arms out wide; an adult's dizzy wizzy. She keeps a cat even though animals are not permitted. They litter the elevators and the hall smells. But the cat purrs and sits and watches the flame too. She drinks red wine because that is more mysterious than Malibu or Hooch, and she claims benefit. She used to dance, she was thin with short dark hair, but her ex liked chubby blondes and left her when she transformed. She tells people that she is a witch and that she can cast spells. She can even make a candle extinguish with a thought, like in the films. It is her party trick. She has the power but it's real, not a cartoon. She has a cat and it's real too. She can feel the warmth it leaves behind in its chair, smell its breath and trace the cuts it leaves on her arms. The candle and the cat are real and she has the power.